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         Student in the said art.
      
       
         
           1682
        
      
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         A65963
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         ESTC R18585
         12560232
         ocm 12560232
         63143
         
           
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             The whole work of love, or, A new poem, on a young lady, who is violently in love with a gentleman of Lincolns-Inn by a student in the said art.
             Student in the said art.
          
           1 sheet ([1] p.)
           
             Printed by T. Haly, for the author,
             London :
             1682.
          
           
             Reproduction of original in Huntington Library.
             Broadside.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Love poetry, English -- Early works to 1800.
           Broadsides
        
      
    
     
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        Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images
      
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           The
           whole
           work
           of
           Love.
           OR
           :
           
             A
             NEW
             POEM
          
           .
           On
           a
           Young
           Lady
           ;
           who
           is
           violently
           in
           Love
           with
           a
           Gentleman
           of
           LINCOLNS-INN
           ;
        
         
           By
           a
           Student
           in
           the
           said
           ART
           .
        
         
           
             LOVE
             is
             a
             thing
             that
             's
             not
             on
             Reason
             laid
             ,
          
           
             But
             upon
             Nature
             and
             her
             Dictates
             made
             :
          
           
             Fancy
             I
             mean
             ;
             for
             that
             prescribes
             the
             way
             ,
          
           
             For
             Love
             at
             last
             ,
             to
             make
             her
             Holly-Day
             .
          
           
             Our
             thoughts
             like
             Winds
             ,
             that
             vary
             every
             Hour
             ,
          
           
             When
             blowing
             on
             a
             Thatcht-house
             ,
             or
             a
             Tower
             :
          
           
             Which
             is
             the
             Case
             ,
             of
             this
             our
             Lady
             ,
             then
          
           
             Sometimes
             she
             's
             high
             ,
             and
             then
             she
             's
             still
             agen
             ;
          
           
             At
             last
             ,
             Love
             is
             taken
             by
             its
             own
             Hook
             ,
          
           
             Like
             a
             Sea-nimph
             ,
             near
             ,
             to
             a
             purling
             Brook
             :
          
           
             Changing
             its
             Waters
             ,
             and
             its
             Element
             ,
             Gay
             ;
          
           
             Love
             ,
             it
             discovers
             all
             ,
             to
             go
             to
             Play.
          
           
             And
             then
             ,
             Circkling
             about
             his
             belov'd
             Arms
             ,
          
           
             And
             that
             for
             ever
             ,
             on
             Loves
             Immortal
             Charms
             :
          
           
             And
             goes
             into
             the
             Chamber
             ,
             of
             th'
             Marriage
             Bed
             ,
          
           
             There
             to
             take
             Pleasure
             ,
             and
             lay
             down
             its
             Head.
          
           
             Love
             like
             a
             Souldier
             ,
             coming
             to
             the
             Field
             ,
          
           
             At
             length
             is
             Conquerr'd
             ,
             and
             is
             forc'd
             to
             yield
             ;
          
           
             Since
             every
             thing
             ,
             does
             unto
             a
             Center
             tend
          
           
             The
             result
             of
             Nature
             ,
             and
             of
             Friendships
             end
             .
          
           
             Love
             is
             a
             God!
             and
             does
             what
             it
             pleases
             ,
          
           
             It
             Cures
             Wounds
             ,
             and
             when
             it
             will
             ,
             us
             eases
             :
          
           
             The
             Master
             Spring
             ,
             of
             each
             humane
             desire
             ,
          
           
             Love
             is
             an
             Angel
             ,
             of
             the
             Angelick
             Quire.
          
           
             But
             ,
             now
             it
             seemeth
             :
             and
             that
             at
             the
             last
             ,
          
           
             Love
             ,
             like
             a
             Sea-man
             ,
             does
             his
             Anchor
             cast
             :
          
           
             Resolving
             in
             Port
             ,
             for
             to
             Wash
             and
             Tallow
             ,
          
           
             Let
             the
             Seas
             be
             Green
             ,
             Dark
             ,
             Blew
             or
             Yellow
             .
          
           
             ●or
             she
             it
             seems
             ;
             if
             any
             means
             be
             left
             ,
          
           
             Turns
             Pirate
             ,
             and
             so
             commits
             a
             Theft
             .
          
           
             Love
             him
             she
             will
             ,
             or
             else
             this
             Life
             depart
             :
          
           
             Love
             ,
             is
             a
             thing
             beyond
             the
             Power
             of
             Art.
          
           
             It
             is
             as
             strong
             as
             Death
             ,
             we
             all
             do
             know
             ,
          
           
             It
             is
             a
             thing
             ,
             that
             still
             doth
             cure
             our
             woe
             .
          
           
             Were
             't
             not
             for
             this
             ,
             't
             would
             be
             no
             joy
             to
             Live
             ;
          
           
             And
             in
             the
             World
             :
             and
             that
             for
             to
             survive
             ;
          
           
             The
             Powers
             above
             !
             on
             us
             this
             gift
             does
             throw
             ,
          
           
             That
             so
             ,
             all
             Pleasures
             ,
             we
             may
             fully
             know
             :
          
           
             Having
             tasted
             ,
             that
             we
             Epicures
             ,
             may
             turn
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             for
             ever
             ,
             in
             Loves
             fire
             to
             burn
             .
          
           
             For
             ,
             of
             all
             Annimals
             ,
             Lovers
             are
             most
             blest
             ,
          
           
             Since
             that
             's
             the
             Life
             ,
             of
             humane
             happiness
             ;
          
           
             Without
             that
             ,
             each
             Person
             's
             like
             to
             a
             Rat
             ,
          
           
             And
             has
             no
             Pleasure
             ,
             except
             that
             of
             the
             Cat.
          
           
             For
             Love's
             a
             thing
             ,
             distinguishes
             us
             from
             Beasts
             ,
          
           
             It
             raises
             Honour
             ,
             and
             our
             Vitals
             Feasts
             :
          
           
             Plants
             us
             in
             the
             form
             ,
             of
             Virtuosoes
             great
             ,
          
           
             And
             so
             doth
             Crown
             ,
             our
             frail
             and
             fickle
             State.
          
           
             Therefore
             at
             last
             ,
             Love
             now
             has
             fixt
             its
             Eye
             ,
          
           
             Upon
             a
             Gentleman
             ,
             of
             much
             Gallantry
             ;
          
           
             Like
             to
             the
             Eagle
             ,
             resolving
             for
             a
             Prey
             ,
          
           
             Takes
             up
             the
             Kite
             ,
             and
             marches
             quite
             away
             :
          
           
             And
             when
             that
             all
             her
             wild
             measures
             has
             sown
             ,
          
           
             Love
             is
             resolv'd
             ,
             to
             make
             the
             Town
             her
             own
             .
          
           
             Have
             him
             she
             will
             ,
             and
             Marry
             him
             ;
             at
             last
             ,
          
           
             Love
             shuts
             the
             Door
             ,
             and
             then
             besure
             all
             's
             fast
             .
          
           
             To
             summ
             up
             all
             ,
             our
             Gentleman
             doth
             say
          
           
             He
             Loves
             not
             Bog-wiggs
             :
             and
             that
             on
             any
             Lay
             ;
          
           
             That
             his
             Mistris
             ,
             most
             fine
             ,
             such
             things
             should
             wear
             ,
          
           
             As
             the
             Tree
             does
             Fruit
             ,
             in
             Summer
             of
             the
             Year
             .
          
           
             He
             is
             a
             Man
             ,
             for
             Nature
             :
             only
             so
             ,
          
           
             And
             in
             her
             Paths
             ,
             with
             her
             would
             run
             and
             go
             :
          
           
             Would
             not
             have
             her
             ,
             each
             thing
             from
             Art
             exchane
             ,
          
           
             For
             all
             things
             ,
             but
             Nature
             ,
             are
             to
             him
             most
             strange
             .
          
           
             So
             ,
             if
             Love
             will
             have
             it
             ,
             a
             Marriage
             to
             be
             ,
          
           
             We
             'l
             all
             come
             see
             the
             Ivy
             and
             Oak
             Tree
             :
          
           
             Twineing
             together
             ,
             by
             Natures
             Commands
             ,
          
           
             The
             thing
             is
             done
             ,
             and
             the
             World
             claps
             Hands
             .
          
        
         
           FINIS
           .
        
      
    
     
       
         
           London
           ,
           Printed
           by
           
             T.
             Haly
          
           ,
           for
           the
           Author
           .
           1682.
           
        
      
    
  

